


Downton Court Christmas Special

by Ariel_Tempest



Series: Downton Court [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Drama, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Prequel, Secret Santa, Uninentional Flirting, actor references, anti-christmas, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-17 03:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: December has arrived bringing with it cold weather, the Season's Hottest Christmas albums, and, at the Downton Court Hotel, the annual Christmas party and gift exchange. Excitement mounts as the staff wonder who's drawn their name and what to buy for their partner......and prays that no one has the bad judgement to revisit the Prank Gift Incident of four years prior.Set roughly two years before the main story.





	1. Christmas Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> The danger of reading other people's fanfiction is that you'll do something like innocently pick up a modern AU that looks interesting at the time - say "The Worst Kept Secret" by theglamourfades - and you read it and you think that's that, but then five minutes later your brain is on about "Hey, how would that general story premise work in _our_ modern A/U?" and never mind it's August. You read a Christmas story in August, you can write one at the same time. Then it gets thinking about backstory and how the AU characters' lives correlate to the original series and that's it. You're stuck. None of the characters will shut up until you start writing.
> 
> And so we have this side story to my wandering little WIP AU. It is, appropriately, also a WIP. The good news is I know roughly where this one is going. The bad news is that between work, my health, my cat's health, etc., even though I'm doing my usual DC levels of research (minimal) and editing (also minimal) it's going slowly, even for me.
> 
> I kinda hope to have it done before the Christmas season hits, because if there's one thing Night Manager Barrow and I agree on, it's Christmas music.
> 
> ...it is probably worth noting that I work retail.

As near as Thomas could tell, Mr. Carson owned a top hat for exactly one reason: the annual Christmas gift exchange. In the years he’d been at Downton Court he’d never once seen the older man actually wear the thing, but every December first it appeared before him, filled with slips of paper. It was as certain as bad covers of annoying carols, cranked out by today’s hottest artists. It came like glitter covered garlands and cheap tinsel that got everywhere. And here it was again, held in Mrs. Hughes’s hand, a holiday game of Russian roulette. “It’s that time again, Mr. Barrow,” the hotel’s owner informed him, her tone as crisply pleasant as her smile. Mr. Carson stood behind her, looking, to Thomas’s way of thinking, like a stuffed frog.

Thomas stifled a sigh. He wanted to argue or ask if he could beg off this year, but he knew better. Even the year he’d been flat broke and struggling to make rent the owners hadn’t let him off the hook. Instead Mrs. Hughes had lent him the money to buy Mrs. Patmore a good winter coat, second hand. (Later it had turned out that the head cook had just been complaining to Mrs. Hughes about her current coat which was giving out. He’d felt a little bit manipulated - something not helped by his own gift, a copy of “Investing for Dummies” - but Mrs. Patmore’s genuine gratitude had made the whole ordeal a bit more bearable.) “Well, let’s get it over with,” he muttered, sticking his hand into the hat and grabbing a slip of paper. Silently praying he at least got someone easy to shop for (he had no earthly idea what he’d get Ivy, for instance) he unfolded the piece of paper. He stared at it for a half a second, then went to put it back in the hat. “Got myself. Have to draw again.”

“Nice try, Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes replied, moving the hat out of reach. “But someone has already gotten you.”

Internally cursing and trying not to sound desperate, he tried the more honest approach, although he had even less faith that would work. “Can I please draw again? Please?”

“The point of this exchange is not to get the person you wish to, Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Carson informed him. “It is to help our staff learn about each other’s likes and dislikes and to bring us together as a team.”

“And also to make certain that everyone gets at least one Christmas present a year,” Mrs. Hughes added. Her tone was kind, but the reminder that he’d likely go without if it weren’t for Downton Court tradition made him flinch. (It was possibly unintentional. After all, she had no reason to know that much about his personal life, although you could never quite tell with Mrs. Hughes.) He couldn’t even protest that there were years he’d have rather gone without, not unless he wanted a lecture on gratitude from Carson. “Now, who did you get?”

Wordlessly, Thomas handed over the little slip of paper. Mrs. Hughes looked at the name written there and sucked in her breath a little and for one, fleeting moment Thomas actually thought she might relent and let him try again. That died when she took her pen and wrote the name down on the note pad she was carrying. That was that, then. It was official and he was stuck.

Mr. Carson gave him a stern look. “If I were you, Mr. Barrow, I would look at this as a way to make up for your past behavior.”

“Charles,” Mrs. Hughes turned and gave her husband a stern look. “That’s hardly the Christmas spirit.”

“It is if you’re the ghost of Christmas past, present, or future.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Mr. Dickens.” With an eye roll, his wife turned back to Thomas. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find something nice and thoughtful,” she said, which again was somehow worse than Mr. Carson’s high toned criticism.

Dutifully he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Hughes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to take guesses at who drew whom before we get too far in, feel free.


	2. Christmas Yet To Come

“I’m not at all easy about the gift exchange this year,” Charles Carson confessed to his wife as they walked down the street to their home. It had been sheer luck that had found them a lovely cottage for sale two blocks from the hotel. On top of being everything they could have hoped for in a living space, being able to walk too and from work saved God alone knew how much in petrol and made them readily available in case of after hours emergency. 

Beside him, Elsie sighed and, although he wasn’t looking directly at her, probably rolled her eyes. “You’ve not been easy about the exchange since Alfred gave Thomas that horrid gag gift four years ago.”

“I have not,” he agreed, stressing the point as best he could. “Admittedly, it’s been less concerning since O’Brien moved on, and good riddance. I’m still certain she was behind that, even if I couldn’t prove it.” That particular party still ranked among one of the worst memories in all of his years as a business owner. It had been so bad, he’d nearly felt the need to apologize to Thomas, although he’d ultimately repressed the urge. To that end he continued, “But it still feels like asking for trouble. And this year, well. If Mr. Barrow’s conduct had come to my attention rather than yours, he would be looking for new employment right now.” He did not explicitly state that his wife had been two soft in her handling of matters, but really, there were plenty of good workers looking for positions. 

“And we’d be out two good employees and the hotel would have burnt down five months ago,” his wife replied, crisply reminding him of why, precisely, she had elected not to sack the night manager. 

Charles sighed. No matter how much he objected to Thomas, he couldn’t argue that the younger man’s quick response had saved them a lot of money in repair bills, at the very least. Elsie believed in rewarding good behavior when she saw it, more than punishing bad, and in this case maybe she was right. He was still far from comfortable with the current situation.

“Thomas has always behaved himself at the Christmas party,” Elsie continued, although she quickly amended, “At least as far as the gift exchange was concerned. And he’s been better with the mistletoe since the whole Jimmy affair. He may not be Father Christmas, but I trust him not to do anything worse than grouse about the music and refuse to sing at karaoke. Unless perhaps you’d like to cancel the Christmas party all together and save some money on scheduling the seasonal staffers?”

That, Charles thought, was unfair. After all, even if it was financially a bit frivolous, it was a time honoured tradition and he’d never complained about it in general. “There is no need to go to extremes, Elsie,” he protested. “I am certain that, as a whole, the event will be a success, just as it is every year. I simply hope that your trust isn’t misplaced.”

“Well then, if you can’t trust Thomas’s better nature, at least trust his not wanting to be dressed down in front of everyone.”

After a moment’s thought, Charles decided that did help, if only a little.


	3. The Thought That Counts

“It feels so good to be home and off my feet,” Anna sighed, curling as far back into the overstuffed sofa as she could manage. “Now if only part of me didn’t want to rush out and go shopping!”

“It sounds like someone is excited for the gift exchange this year,” her husband noted, hanging his coat up and going to put the kettle on. “Get someone good?”

Anna made a face. “Not really. I mean, it’s not someone terrible but…oh, I might as well. Unless you don’t want to share this year?”

“Actually I’d like some suggestions outside of Old Spice products and hair gel.”

“Sounds like someone got Jimmy,” Anna guessed. She giggled a little at the resultant nod and long suffering sigh. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can come up with something better. I got Andy. He’s a nice enough boy, but I have no ideas. None at all! I’d almost rather have Thomas, at least then I’d know what not to get.”

John shook his head. “I can’t agree with you there. Although speaking of our night manager, you might ask him what Andy likes.The two of them are pretty chummy.”

“True,” Anna admitted, scooching aside as her husband made his way over and settled in next to her. “And he’s always been decent about the exchange, even when he’s gotten people he didn’t care for. I certainly couldn’t complain the year he got me. I can’t imagine he’d give me bad advice about his friend.” She leaned her head on John’s shoulder and looked up at him. “You could ask him about Jimmy, for that matter.”

The observation earned her a chuckle. “Imagine, the entire staff going to Thomas for gift giving advice. Would he feel put upon or would his head swell so large he couldn’t get through a door?”

Anna laughed at the image of the staff lining up outside of the manager’s office. “It would be ironic, wouldn’t it? The entire Christmas party hinging on Mr. Bah-Humbug himself.”

“Perhaps irony is the new spirit of Christmas.”

“Let’s not test it, if we don’t have to.”

Not having any objection to the suggestion, Mr. Bates wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Very well, then. We’ll leave asking Thomas as a last resort. In the meantime, I suggest we think on the situation tomorrow and take tonight to relax.”

“I like that idea. I like it a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably worth noting that for the exchange I really did throw everyone's names through Random.org, so if you're waiting to see what 'that one ship' got each other...don't. 
> 
> Yes, I was disappointed too, but that's how these things go.


	4. It Could Always Be Worse

“Of all the sodding luck,” Thomas groused, pausing long enough to light a fag in the frigid, pre-dawn air. “I don’t know who originally came up with this gift exchange thing, but I hope they spend the rest of their eternity getting socks or underwear. Something rubbish like that.”

Jimmy, who had landed closing shifts for the month, was already turning his feet toward the Dog and Duck. Unlike the town’s other two pubs, which were already closed, it remained open until one thirty in the morning, which meant if they scrambled night crew had about an hour to have a pint or two after their shift. At Thomas’s complaint, he turned and gave the taller man a quizzical look. “Why are you upset? I know you don’t have Bates. I drew him. What on earth am I supposed to get? A new walking stick?”

“Don’t see why not,” Thomas shrugged. “Something with a bit of class that made him look like an old fashioned gentleman rather than that old man piece of garbage he uses now.”

Jimmy thought about it, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare. Carson would yell at me.”

That earned him an eye roll. “What, did he and Mrs. Hughes tell you they were certain you’d ‘find something nice’ too?”

“Well, no.”

“So it is just me, then. Suspected as much.”

Jimmy looked at him sideways. It was an unfortunately endearing expression, especially with his breath streaming in the cold and his hands jammed down in his pocket like a little kid. It made Thomas want to pick him up and cuddle him. “They really told you that?”

“Yeah.” Thomas confirmed. “Hardly fair when Alfred’s the one who gave me a feather boa, tiara, and tampons.”

“I still can’t believe he did that.”

“Pretty sure O’Brien put him up to it.” Of course, Carson hadn’t yelled at either of them, at least not directly. He’d simply issued a general warning to the party at large that such things were not, in fact, funny. He then spent the rest of the night looking amused every time he glanced in Thomas’s direction. Thomas had gone home early that year and was pretty sure no one missed him. To be fair, that was also the worst thing he (or anyone else) had ever gotten, but generally no one put much effort into it. Daisy had gotten him a really nice box of chocolates, back when she was crushing on him. When they’d been friends O’Brien had gotten him a full carton of his favorite brand of cigarettes. The first year they’d been friends again, Jimmy had gotten him a really nice tie. After that, the best he’d done was a used copy of Cluedo from Mr. Molesley (which he’d kept for when Jimmy came over and they were drunk and bored) and it went downhill from there. 

(His other present from Mr. Molesley had been returned to the bookstore for cash which he used to buy something he hoped the other man wouldn’t approve of.)

Jimmy shook his head and scuffed his shoe against the sidewalk, pretending like he was kicking at a rock even though there was no rock to kick. “Still, even at my worst I have to call that a dick move.” He gave Thomas another of those sideways looks. “So who did you get?”

“Not you and no one I want,” Thomas replied. “In fact, if they’d not written names down, I would trade you for Bates.”

Jimmy straight up gawped at that.

“Come on,” Thomas lengthened his stride, making the shorter man scurry to keep up. “You agree to drop it, I’ll buy you a round.”


	5. In On the Secret

“But what on earth do I get him?” Ivy was asking as Phyllis walked into the kitchen. It was Alfred’s night off, so it was just the female staff on duty, and apparently nothing needed doing because the younger two were leaning against one of the preparation tables while Mrs. Patmore rooted around in the refrigerator. The Christmas Spirit must have been hard at work because normally the head cook would have been snapping at them for loafing. 

“Well, you might consider a sense of humor, if you can find one,” Mrs. Patmore suggested from behind the stainless steel door. “Then again, he might be deathly allergic to those.”

Phyllis thought she could guess whose name Ivy had drawn, but still felt it polite to ask, “Who did you get, Ivy?”

“Mr. Barrow,” the younger woman replied with a sigh. “I don’t even know where to start!”

“Well you can scratch feathers, rainbows, and glitter off of your list.” The head cook pulled out of the refrigerator with a plate of halved, yolkless hard boiled eggs and a bowl full of some yellow substance. She carried them over to the counter, set them down, then turned to look at Ivy, a hand on her hip. “You can probably forget a purse as well. Maybe if you could find him a boyfriend it would sweeten him up a bit.”

“I can’t even find one of those for myself, not properly,” Ivy scowled. Phyllis had no idea what had happened to turn her off of Jimmy, but the two were barely on speaking terms.

“Maybe a new tie,” Daisy suggested. “Or a nice hat. Thomas likes hats, when he’s off work, if they’re the proper sort.”

Mrs. Patmore snorted lightly and arched her eyebrows. “Oh, still an expert on what Thomas likes, are we?” she asked, emphasizing the name, then turned back to her work as the younger woman turned a decided shade of pink. She pulled like a cake decorating bag and tip out of a drawer and started filling it with the yellow concoction from the bowl.

“They’re only suggestions!” Daisy protested, still pink about the ears. “He liked it the year Jimmy got him a tie, didn’t he?”

“He’d have liked a lump of coal if Jimmy had gotten it for him.” Mrs. Patmore started squeezing the yellow mixture into the halved and hollowed eggs. Phyllis had always wondered how the cook got her deviled eggs to look so fancy. She’d never have thought of a cake decorating tip.

“And that’s sort of like getting one of those bubble bath baskets for a girl, isn’t it?” Ivy asked, pulling a face. “I don’t want Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to think I hadn’t really tried.”

Mentally scratching bath supplies from her own potential gift list, Phyllis gave her a smile. “I’m certain the owners will appreciate any gift you get. It’s the thought and participation that count, for them.”

Ivy still didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps…” she drummed her fingers for a moment, then gave Phyllis an imploring look. “You’ve known him for ages. What do you think he’d like?”

Phyllis froze. It had never occurred to her that anyone might ask her advice on the matter. She had, she supposed, not been with the hotel long enough the previous year to attend the party, therefore no one had thought to ask. (Thomas had offered her some of the fruitcake he’d been gifted afterward. He’d offered that cake to everyone “as a gesture of good will”. Most people had turned him down, but Phyllis had taken a thick slice and thought it quite good.) Now, though, of course they’d think to include her, which was unfortunate, because she had no idea where to start. “I may have known him for ages, but that doesn’t mean I know him well, I’m afraid,” she apologized. “Until I applied here, I’d not actually seen him since he graduated grammar school. Mostly he was just my friend’s little brother.”

“Oh,” Ivy sighed, deflating a little bit. 

Phyllis felt bad, not only for letting Ivy down, but because the girl really did seem determined to get Thomas something more inspired than a fruit basket. The night manager, she thought, could use a gift with the personal touch. “I remember he liked music, if that helps,” she tried. “It seemed like every few months Margaret was complaining he’d found a new band to obsess over.” She frowned, trying to push aside the years and the distance and remember any names, but she couldn’t quite manage. “Last I remember he’d fallen in love with jazz, although I don’t know if he stuck with it.”

Ivy looked thoughtful at that. “I don’t really know anything about jazz music, but my cousin works at a music store. He might be able to recommend something.”

“If nothing else, something obscure will be a curiosity, I should think,” Phyllis encouraged. 

Apparently Mrs. Patmore’s Christmas Spirit didn’t like making deviled eggs, because she cut into the conversation like a ham. “It’s at least a place to start. Now, enough sitting around idle, you two, and get to work.”

The two girls grimaced and stood, tightening apron strings and adjusting hair nets. “I need to use the loo first,” Ivy informed them, then turned and hurried from the room before Mrs. Patmore could protest.

She didn’t quite manage. “Coulda done that ten times while you were sitting there, couldn’t you?” the head cook called after her, then humphed. “Daisy, you get on prepping for the eggnog.” Then she glanced at Phyllis. “And what, if I might ask, are you doing here?”

When she’d first started, Mrs. Patmore’s brusque manner had made Phyllis think the other woman didn’t like her, for some reason. Numerous assurances, not only from Thomas but the other staff, and general observation had finally convinced her that the head cook was simply “a well meaning but fussy old biddy”. Therefore she didn’t feel the need to apologize as she replied, “Actually, I’m glad she left. I’ve drawn Ivy for the gift exchange and was hoping for some ideas.”

Daisy pulled a face. “She likes girly things,” the assistant cook replied. “Like dresses and jewelry and things for her hair. I swear she has a new perfume every night.”

“Oh, hark to the suffragette, will you?” Mrs. Patmore laughed in her hearty, yet still dismissive, manner. “And what do you want? A suite of armor? A tattoo of Joan of Arc?”

“I want books,” Daisy informed her, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “Classic literature. There’s so many things I’ve never read! Like Dracula.”

“Now there’s a Christmas gift!”

“Or Moby-Dick,” the girl continued, completely ignoring her. “Or the works of Shakespeare. How is anyone supposed to be an educated woman when you haven’t read Shakespeare outside of Romeo and Juliet in school?”

“I never read that, so I guess I’m not an educated woman,” Mrs. Patmore snorted, then looked over at Phyllis. “How about you, Miss Baxter? Have you studied Shakespeare?”

Feeling the conversation slip away from her, Phyllis smiled and shook her head. “We read Hamlet rather than Romeo and Juliet, but that was all.” She turned her smile to Daisy and nodded. “Thank you for the gift ideas. I’d better get back to work and let you get on with yours.”

“We’ll let you know if we come up with anything more helpful than ‘girly things’,” Mrs. Patmore assured her, then turned her attention back to the deviled eggs. “Careful separating those eggs, Daisy!”


	6. Don't Push The Button

Andy knocked on the door to the manager’s office. When there was no reply, he cautiously opened the door and stuck his head in. It was empty. After a moment’s hesitation, he let himself in all of the way, deciding to wait a little bit. If Mr. Barrow weren’t back in three minutes, he’d go look elsewhere. 

Generally speaking, the manager’s office was not a very personal space. Given that Mr. Bates and Mr. Barrow shared it, it tended to be very utilitarian in its appearance, the main exception being a picture of Anna sitting on top of one of the filing cabinets. (Andy had asked once why it was on the cabinet rather than the desk and been told that Mr. Barrow didn’t want to spend his shift looking at another man’s wife.) In the two weeks since he’d last had cause to visit, there had been a few very noticeable changes. There was beaded garland pinned around the edge of the desk, for instance, and around the edges of both filing cabinets. There was also a white, plush bear sitting on a corner of the desk. Bemused by the toy, which did not really recommend itself to either manager’s personality, at least from Andy’s experience, he picked it up for closer inspection. It was dressed like Father Christmas and had small, heart shaped pads on its paws. One of them read ‘push me’.

“Do not push that,” a voice from behind him instructed in a firm, Mancunian dialect. The tone suggested probable death if he disobeyed.

Andy hastily replaced the bear and turned to face the owner of said voice. “I wasn’t going to, Mr. Barrow, I promise. It just seemed out of place is all.” A thought occurred to him. “Did one of the guests forget it?”

“I should be so lucky,” Mr. Barrow sighed, coming fully into the room. He looked a little bit worn out, but he walked around the desk and took his seat with his customary dignity. “No, Gwen and Mrs. Patmore bought it, then convinced Mrs. Hughes that we needed more Christmas cheer in the office. Mrs. Hughes, in turn, reasoned that it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, it would get the other two off of her back, and we didn’t need to push the button. Ever.” He still eyed the bear with a healthy amount of dislike. “If it goes missing, neither Bates or I know what happened to it.” 

Although Andy had only been at hotel for seven months, just long enough to attend the party, he knew that Mr. Barrow flat out confessing that he and the day manager agreed on something was a testament in and of itself. He moved slightly away from the bear, as if it were a ticking bomb. “Of course not, Mr. Barrow.”

“Right then,” the older man folded his hands on the desk and smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“Er, well, if you have the time, I hoped I could ask some advice on the gift exchange?” Andy asked. While he’d been told when he drew his giftee’s name that he could get advice from other staff members, he wasn’t quite clear if he was allowed to do it on the clock or not. On the other hand, he only ever saw the others when he was on the clock. 

He was somewhat surprised when the night manager actually perked up a little bit. He’d been told that Barrow and “Bah-humbug” started with the same letter for a reason. “Of course, glad to be of assistance,” Mr. Barrow assured him. “Who’ve you drawn?”

“Anna.”

Grey eyes blinked, very slowly. Mr. Barrow’s smile widened a hair and stiffened and his eyebrows notched upward, leaving Andy wondering what he’d said that was so amusing. Because really, it had to be amusing to garner that look, didn’t it? “Anna? Really?” The stiffness vanished, although it looked like it took conscious effort, and the night manager leaned back in his chair, hands spreading. “Well, I don’t know what I can tell you. From what I’ve seen of past years she’s easy enough to please. Gwen would know more.”

“I know, but I’m more comfortable asking another bloke,” Andy confessed, feeling somewhat silly. He still didn’t know what to make of Mr. Barrow’s attitude. “And Jimmy was no help at all.” That hadn’t been a surprise, honestly. Andy didn’t trust the other bellboy’s boasts of knowing what women wanted any further than he could throw them. “Have you ever gotten her?”

The night manager nodded. “Once. It was back before she and Mr. Bates were married. She was always complaining that her feet hurt at the end of the day, so I got her some nice bath things. You know, bubble bath, those things that go all fizzy in the water, that sort of stuff.” He shrugged. “She seemed to like it and she certainly complained less for a bit.”

Andy shifted a bit. “I don’t know, I feel like it would awkward, buying another man’s wife something like that.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Offending Bates?” That earned him an actual laugh. “Don’t fret about that, trust me. Bates knows the routine. As long as you don’t buy her lingerie he’s not going to back you into a corner and tell you off.” The very idea of buying any of his female coworkers intimate apparel made Andy turn crimson, but before he could continue, Mr. Barrow turned thoughtful. “Even then he might not, I suppose, if you presented it as a gift to both of them.”

“Really, Mr. Barrow!” Andy protested. He felt like his face was going to burst into very literal flames.”I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

The older man gave him a knowing grin. “No, it really wouldn’t, but the idea holds. You could buy her a blanket or a bottle of something nice and claim it’s for them to share.” He shrugged. “Or I suppose you could go with slippers, up to you. If your strapped for money, you can find some nice things second hand. It’s what most people do.”

“Slippers sound safe, thank you. Maybe I’ll ask Gwen her shoe size and try to find a pair.” Certain he was still blushing, Andy bowed and prepared to show himself from the room. In the process he misjudged where the corner of the desk was and knocked into it, sending the little white bear toppling. Instinctively he grabbed for it…

“We wish you a Merry Christmas!” a flat, tinny voice informed them. “We wish you a Merry Christmas! We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”

Taking one look at Mr. Barrow’s face, Andy carefully set the toy back on the desk, mumbled “So sorry, Mr. Barrow” and bolted from the room. He decided that if the bear went missing, he didn’t know what had happened to it either.


	7. All I Want For Christmas

He was in. Phyllis knew he was in. She’d watched him open the door and vanish into the manager’s office from the other end of the hall. The timing was perfect. All she had to do was knock on the door, ask one simple question, and leave. It wasn’t complicated.

Except that it was. It was complicated because this was Thomas and he was angry with her. She couldn’t even plead the Christmas Spirit, that would only make things worse. 

(And really, when had he wound up hating Christmas? The Thomas Barrow she remembered had started guessing what presents he was going to get half way through November.)

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and told herself to just get it over with. Her courage screwed to the sticking place as best she could manage, she stepped across the hall and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Despite being invited, she started by opening the door just enough to slip her head through and ask, “Do you have a moment?” 

He stiffened at the sound of her voice and shifted his attention just far enough from the computer screen to signal he was aware of her. “No more than that, and it had best be important.”

With a sigh, she stepped all the way into the room, shutting the door behind her. “It’s about the Christmas Exchange. People have been asking me what you want and, well, I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Tell them to ask Jimmy,” he replied, turning his attention back to the computer. It was an obvious dismissal if ever there was one.

“I think they have done,” she persisted. “I don’t think people quite trust Jimmy’s gift buying advice.”

“Then tell them to ask Andy,” was the immediately snapped reply. “They’re about the only real friends I have here.”

Phyllis winced at the insult, then sighed again, and nodded. “Alright.” Out of options, she turned to leave the room. She was shocked when, her hand on the door knob, she was accosted by a question.

“And what do you want? Just in case someone asks. Or shall I direct them to Molesley?”

She turned back. He still wasn’t looking at her. The answer to the question was painfully easy, but she couldn’t quite say it. She wanted him to forgive her. She wanted him to stop hating her. Unfortunately that wasn’t something someone could wrap up and hand out at the gift exchange. “Oh, anything,” she finally shrugged. “Slippers, or a book, or some chocolates, I suppose. I’m not picky.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

She stood there for awhile, watching him type away on the computer, completely ignoring her existence. She wanted to say something. She wanted to say that she was sorry for telling Mrs. Hughes he’d lied about her criminal record to get her the job. A small, panicky part of her even wanted to say that she hadn’t realized, when they made their deal, that was what he’d intended to do, but on some level she’d always known. Lying wouldn’t help her cause. Finally she simply slipped from the room. She leaned against the door as it closed behind her, taking a moment to concentrate on breathing, and then turned toward the kitchen.

Hopefully for Ivy’s sake he’d at least told Andy what he wanted.


	8. Making A List

“Have you asked anyone else?” Daisy was asking as Alfred walked into the kitchen.

“No,” Ivy sighed. “Miss Baxter said to ask Andy, but we never work the same shifts. Beyond that, I don’t even know who else to ask…other than not Alfred.”

“Don’t ask me what?” the tall red-head demanded. He had no idea what they were talking about, but he hardly saw why he should apparently be the only person in existence whose input didn’t matter. “And why not?”

The other two cooks, who were standing at one of the preparation tables slicing vegetables, both gave a start and turned to look at him. Ivy’s look quickly turned despairing. “What to get Mr. Barrow for the Christmas exchange. I know you don’t have any idea.”

Alfred regretted asking. He was also certain his face now matched his hair. “Look,” he sputtered, trying to defend himself and cover his embarrassment, “Aunt Sarah was the one who bought all of that. I honestly didn’t even know what it was until he opened it. She just had me sign the card. I trusted her.”

“More the fool you,” Daisy rolled her eyes and went back to dicing tomatoes. 

“She was my Aunt! And everyone was always going on about how close they were! There was no reason for me not to trust her to get something good.”

“And why would you need her to buy ‘something good’ unless you had no idea what to get?” Ivy countered.

Alfred floundered, but honestly, she had him there. He gave up and started gathering the makings for mustard sauce. 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know,” Daisy continued, as if Alfred had never even entered the room. “It’s not as if you’re an item.”

“I know, and it’s not as if I see him a lot, but you know that look he gets when you’ve done something he doesn’t like. Imagine getting that look every time you bump into him on the way to the loo?”

Alfred shuddered. He didn’t need to imagine. The older staff, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore, seemed impervious to them, but how they did it was a mystery. He’d spent three months wondering if it wouldn’t be a good idea to quit his job and move to Cancun or something just to get away from those looks. Fortunately Aunt Sarah had done it instead and Mr. Barrow seemed to have forgiven him, or at least decided he wasn’t worth the continued effort. “I’d just give him money before I risked that, and hang the rules.” There really hadn’t ever been any ‘rules’ for the exchange beyond buying for the person you drew, a general price range, and, after his misplaced trust in his aunt, keep it tasteful. The only thing the owners had insisted on was no money. 

“I would literally rather be buying for any one else who works here,” Ivy sighed. “Even Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes.” 

“They don’t count, they stay out of the exchange.”

“I’d still rather buy for them.”

Alfred had to agree with her. “I think we should be allowed one redraw,” he offered. “For if we get someone we’re completely stumped on. Just to avoid hurt feelings.”

“Who’ve you got then?” Daisy asked.

“Gwen. Any ideas?” It wasn’t that Alfred didn’t like the red-haired maid. If anything, there had been plenty of jokes between them at staff meetings about red-heads sticking together, which Mrs. Patmore may or may not have joined in, depending on her mood. But that didn’t give him any clues as to what to buy her.

“Ask Anna,” was Ivy’s immediate reply.

Daisy rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by the other cook’s knowledge of their coworkers. Then again, she and Gwen had both been working at the hotel for years before Ivy or Alfred had shown up, so that wasn’t exactly fair. “She likes to write,” she informed them. “So get something that a writer would like.”

“And what would a writer like?” Ivy retorted.

“Well, you get, um,” Daisy floundered, having clearly exhausted her supply of superior knowledge. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “Maybe a book on how to get published or some fancy pens.”

“I don’t think fancy pens will cost quite enough,” Alfred pointed out, reviewing the general cost guide. “Not unless they write for you.”

“And you don’t write, so how do you know which books on getting published are good?” Ivy added.

Apparently this made Daisy feel ganged up on. She pushed aside the carrot she’d been slicing, pulled off her apron, and headed for the door in a huff. “Google it,” she snapped. “At least I know who got you two!”

“Oh?” Alfred perked up. They weren’t supposed to say, of course, but the kitchen staff always tried to learn early. “Who?”

Daisy stopped just long enough to fire off a “As if I’d tell!” and then left the room.

Ivy and Alfred exchanged looks. Ivy shook her head. “She doesn’t really know."


	9. Bah Humbug

The window display in front of Thomas was full of walking sticks, from silver headed old fashioned affairs to hand carved and burnt crooks. If you’d told him that he had to use one of them for the rest of his days, he wouldn’t be happy about it exactly, but he’d have been far more apt to shrug his shoulders and say ‘oh well, needs must. At least it’ll look sharp’ than if you’d handed him the purely functional metal and plastic thing Bates used. 

Why couldn’t he have drawn Bates? The man was a right prat and probably wouldn’t have appreciated getting a walking stick, even if it was well meant, but he would have been easy to shop for all the same. Thomas could even, if he put his mind to it, come up with a present or two less likely to get him yelled at. (Although honestly, if he had drawn Bates he’d probably have just gone with the walking stick and had his protest ready that if the other man was going to take Anna out places dressed all fancy, he might as well not ruin the effect.) The best part of it was no matter what he got, Bates would have been expected to be grateful to him for a change and wouldn’t that have made it the best Christmas ever?

Shoving his hands further in his pocket, he turned and moved on down the street. He should really just go to a second hand shop and find something innocuous. Get it over with. But he was too proud and stubborn for his own good and Mrs. Hughes’s assurance that he’d find something nice rankled. Yes, there were nice things to be found second hand, as he’d pointed out to Andy, but somehow once she’d said that, he had to up the ante. He had to find something not only nice, but also new. It had to be something he’d give someone he liked, someone he wanted to like him.

Someone he hadn’t given up on.

The shop door in front of him and the one behind opened, ushering forth people dressed in heavy winter coats and swathed in cheerful music informing everyone that it was the most wonderful time of the year. Thomas was firmly of the opinion that if the song were right, he wouldn’t need to be told, repeatedly, from multiple radios. Also, Mariah Carey would have given up her career before she descended to the depths of a Christmas single and George Michael would have quit Wham! and gone solo the second someone suggested recording “Last Christmas.” Alright, it had been gratifying the first fifty times to think that an internationally famous singer could have the same bad taste in boyfriends he did, but by the hundredth repetition he was over it.

He was over it all.

He was over the music, over the forced cheer, over everyone insisting that he had to love it or he was a miserable wreck of a human being. They all thought he was a miserable wreck of a human being anyway, so why did they expect it to change now? And what about singing songs about a fat man in a red suit, particularly one who spied on children, directly at him was supposed to make less miserable? How was making him want to stab himself in the ear supposed to make him happy?

He’d ask why he couldn’t simply buy presents for the people he cared about and get presents from the ones who cared about him and be done with it, but he knew the answer. People would look at him sideways if he bought things for Jimmy and Andy outside of the annual exchange, and no one would buy anything for him, unless maybe Anna decided that feeling sorry for him would make a good deed for the year.

Because no one cared that much unless they felt sorry for him or wanted something from him.

_And who’s fault is that?_ A voice in the back of his head asked. It sounded something like Carson and Bates and Mrs. Patmore and several other people all wrapped up in one. And that wasn’t fair either because it wasn’t his fault that his family wouldn’t talk to him until he shaped up and got a girlfriend. It wasn’t his fault that the one time he’d asked, Jimmy had sort of shuffled his feet and said he was sorry, but he’d promised to go to his cousin’s party and it would probably be too crowded to invite anyone else. (Thomas had seen pictures later and it hadn’t looked very crowded at all, which led him to believe there was another reason. He was used to that.) It wasn’t his fault that the people he trusted always wound up being the ones he should never have trusted in the first place.

It wasn’t his fault that even when he tried, really tried, it never seemed to be enough.

Something sparkly in the window next to him caught his attention and made him slow to a stop. The something turned out to be a necklace, nice enough, but not what he was looking for. He let his eyes wander over the rest of the window display, all of which was jewelry that he didn’t feel would suit, then turned to leave just as a furtive looking fellow hurried out, a package tucked under his arm, followed by…

Nothing.

Hardly daring to hope, Thomas opened the door and tentatively stuck his head into the shop. A clock ticked. Somewhere there was water running. 

But there was not so much as a note of music. There wasn’t even the jingle of a bell to alert the proprietor that someone had entered the shop.

With a sigh of relief, Thomas let himself all the way in. Even if he didn’t find anything worth buying, it was worth the stop just to be out of the cold and able to browse in peace. 

He was not alone in the shop. A couple stood in one corner, looking over another display of jewelry. An older man paused from looking over a selection of scented candles to watch him come inside. He chuckled a bit, which Thomas took to mean he’d heard the sigh and sympathized, and went back to his browsing. A lone man stood by the counter, apparently waiting for something. The something put in an appearance very shortly in the form of a smiling, middle aged woman holding a box. “Here we are,” she informed him, placing the box on the counter and opening it. “Last one in stock.”

Thomas couldn’t see what was in the box, but whatever it was, the man seemed to like it, because he nodded and fished out his wallet. (It was then that Thomas spotted the source of the running water. There was a small fountain at the end of the counter, set up against the wall. It made for nice ambiance.)

Looking around he discovered they had more than just jewelry and candles. They also had scarves, gloves, hats, and other assorted accessories. It was nothing overly unusual, nothing to write home about, but the quality was good and the prices not unreasonable. 

The woman at the counter spotted him as she finished ringing up the other man. “Good evening, sir. Anything I can help you with?”

“Just browsing,” Thomas informed her with a smile. He then added, compelled by the sudden urge for honesty, “And enjoying the quiet.”

“Our most prized commodity!” the woman laughed. “Let me know if you need anything.” Having said her bit, she went about doing fussy things behind the counter that generally did not disturb the customers.

Thomas decided then and there that whatever his gift wound up being, it would come from this shop.


	10. What Friends Are For

“So, who got me?” Gwen asked, giving Anna an impish, sideways grin. 

“I have no idea.”

“Oh come on.”

“No, God’s truth, I’ve no idea!” Anna laughed. “No one’s asked me this year!” 

Gwen pouted. “They must have caught on to the fact we’ll always tell each other. No one’s asked me about you either. It’s weird.” The pact to always tell each other who was buying presents for them might have seemed self defeatist, but over the years they’d found it actually added a layer of suspense to the surprise. Was Mrs. Patmore actually asking for herself or for one of the kitchen staff? Who was the ‘someone’ Jimmy said wanted a wish list? Was Anna lying when she said it was Thomas to cover the fact she’d actually drawn Gwen herself? Had Gwen drawn Anna? Neither of them could ever tell and the answers had proved misleading as often as not. 

(Oddly, neither of them had lied about Thomas.)

“Well at least I had an easy one this year,” the red-head shrugged philosophically. “I got Molesley, easiest name in the hat.”

It was Anna’s turn to pull a face. “Go on, then, rub it in! Although I’ve gotten mine taken care of, so I suppose I can’t complain too much. The hardest part was asking Thomas for advice.”

Gwen stopped dead and almost dropped the stack of freshly washed towels she was moving to the housekeeping cart. “You asked Thomas? For advice with Christmas presents?”

“Oh don’t act so shocked,” Anna laughed. “I asked for both me and Mr. Bates. I got Andy and he got Jimmy.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just get something Old Spice for Jimmy. I swear it’s all he wears.”

“Well, Mr. Bates didn’t want to seem unoriginal,” her friend explained. “So we thought we’d put in the extra effort and make certain we were getting something he wanted, or needed, or both.”

“So you got him a book on dating advice?” Gwen rolled her eyes. The breakup between him and Ivy had left Mr. Carson lecturing anyone he caught on the professionalism of dating your coworkers and why it was a bad idea. No one had been really surprised by it, honestly. Jimmy was good looking and a flirt, but only Ivy had thought him good boyfriend material.

That got a giggle. “I’m not sure the book had been written that could help him with that, not if he couldn’t keep Ivy interested. Not the way she’d carried on before they got together.”

“I don’t know, a simple card reading ‘don’t think with your dick’ might do it.”

The giggles turned into gales of laughter. “Gwen, that’s not funny! It’s not. It’s absolutely not funny. It’s dreadful.”

“Then why are you laughing?” The redhead arched an eyebrow.

“Because it’s….okay, alright, it’s funny.” 

Gwen continued folding towels while her friend brought her laughter to a hiccuping halt. “By the way,” she changed the subject, for all the world as if she’d not just roasted one of her coworkers. “Do you know what happened to the little bear Mrs. Patmore and I bought for the managers office? I was in there the other day and didn’t see it.”

“I’d noticed that. I asked Mr. Bates and he says he doesn’t know. He thinks maybe one of the guests’ children found it and smuggled it into their luggage or something.”

“Hmmm.” Gwen wasn’t overly convinced. “I’d be more likely to believe Thomas did something with it.”


	11. The Thought That Counts

“Thank you for agreeing to come shopping with me,” Phyllis gave her companion an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid it’s likely to be a dull afternoon.”

“That’s alright,” Mr. Molesley replied, answering her smile with a lopsided grin of his own. “I never know what to do with my days off anyway. I’d probably have just spent the day organizing my book shelf or dusting. Something like that. This at least gets me out of the house! And who knows, I might be hit with inspiration for my own gift.”

She frowned, puzzled. “I thought you’d said you were done shopping for the exchange?”

“Yes. Well…yes.” He gave a nervous little laugh. “And assuming Mrs. Patmore doesn’t already have a copy of ‘A History of Food in 100 Recipes’ it should go over quite well. But you never know, I might find something even better.”

“I don’t know how you could. That sounds perfect.”

“Unless she already has it.”

“If she does, you have no way of finding out this late in the proceedings,” Phyllis reasoned. The Christmas party was the next day, so she had to find something on this trip. “You might as well go ahead and wrap it if you’ve not done already.”

“I suppose you have a point there.”

Phyllis looked in the store windows as they walked past. “You’d think that ‘something girly’ would mean something to me. After all, I used to be a girl.” She paused and looked at a display of charm jewelry in a toy store. “What would you consider a girly gift, Mr. Molesley?”

“Me?” the man asked, then looked thoughtfully lost. “I’ve no idea, really. Never thought about it. I suppose probably one of those baskets of bath things. Girls like bath things, right?”

Phyllis couldn’t help wincing even as she smiled at the suggestion. “Well, you certainly wouldn’t be alone there. Unfortunately I’ve been informed that bath things are ‘the easy way out’, so I’m afraid it won’t do.” 

“Really?” Mr. Molesley frowned, his expression shifting to that far away look that signaled he was trying to remember something. “I seem to remember some of the maids getting those and seeming quite genuinely pleased. You don’t think they were faking it, do you?”

“I suspect it depends on the maid. Ivy, however, put it in the same category as a tie or hat for a man and made it quite clear that was unacceptable.”

Mr. Molesley didn’t seem to see the problem. “I wouldn’t mind a nice tie, or a good, warm hat while we’re at it. It’s perfectly nippy out here.” The fact that he had a good, warm hat, situated firmly on his head and protecting his bald spot from the wind and light sift of snow, did not seem to make the notion less appealing. 

Phyllis had to admit, she’d not say no to a second winter hat either, or a new scarf, or coat, or anything that could warm her up. It wasn’t that what she was currently wearing was deficient in any way, but it was nice to have a bit of variety. Still, that was neither here nor there since she wasn’t shopping for herself. “Daisy suggested perfume or jewelry, but she doesn’t wear jewelry at work, so I don’t know what she likes, and I’ve no good nose for perfume.”

“I like the perfume you wear,” her companion informed her, all bright innocence. A heart beat later he turned pink around the ears and added in a hasty, somewhat horrified manner, “Er, not to be forward, mind. Only it lingers a little when you walk past the front counter and…um…” Apparently feeling that he was making things worse rather than better, he clammed up.

“I’m glad you like it,” Phyllis assured him, smiling broadly in the face of his bashful discomfort. “I’d hate to think I was offending your nose.”

“Oh, not at all. Er…”

Taking pity on him, she stopped and looked in another window. This one had, ironically, hats and scarfs. She wondered if it was considered cheating, at least in Ivy’s book, to get a hat for a woman. Then again, she’d never seen the young cook wear hats, so she decided she’d better not. “You’ve been doing this awhile,” she noted, starting to move away again. “Who’s been the hardest person for you to shop for?”

The answer should, perhaps, not have been shocking. “Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Molesley replied promptly, with a bit of a shiver. “At least the second time. The first time I thought I had the perfect gift, although looking back at it, no, it really wasn’t. But it meant I had no confidence the second time and let me tell you, he’s nasty when you’ve gotten him something he doesn’t like.”

Unable to imagine Mr. Molesley giving someone an inappropriate gift and suddenly worried for Ivy, Phyllis asked, “What did you get him?”

“Well, the first time he’d just made a bit of a disastrous investment. He didn’t want anyone to know about it, of course, but it got around anyway. Got taken for all he was worth. Only real surprise there is that he didn’t spot it for what it was. He always was into one shady dealing or another, you’d think he’d have learned to spot the other scammers.”

This was all new information to Phyllis and she dearly wished it weren’t. She might have managed her own dealings with the night manager differently if she’d known in advance how the man he was differed from the boy he’d been. That wasn’t to say she wouldn’t have asked for his help in getting a position, but she liked to think she’d have been more careful about it, for both of their sakes. 

“Still, given the whole ‘spirit of Christmas’ thing, it seemed like the thing to do was to help him get back on his feet. So I got him a book on investing.”

“That was sweet of you.” Given that Mr. Molesley and Thomas really didn’t get on, Phyllis could only see this as proof that the shy, somewhat awkward man walking next to her had a heart of gold. “I take it he didn’t appreciate it?”

Mr. Molesley went pink around the ears again. “Er, yes, well, in hindsight I must admit that perhaps ‘Investing for Dummies’, while very accessible, was perhaps not the best choice in titles.”

“Oh. Dear.” Phyllis winced again, then laid a consoling hand on his arm. “But it’s the thought that counts and it was still a very kind thought.” As an afterthought she asked, “What did you get him the next time?”

“A second hand copy of Cluedo. Not very imaginative, but I couldn’t come up with anything else.” He shrugged. “At least he didn’t seem to hate it?”

“Actually, I think I’ve heard him and Jimmy talk about playing it,” she informed him, hoping it would lessen the sting of the botched present (which, she was certain, Thomas had made sting a good deal at the time). “I know they’ve mentioned playing Cluedo, at any rate, and I don’t see why they’d have bought a new copy if Thomas already had one.”

“Oh.” As she’d hoped, Mr. Molesley brightened. “Well, good to know I got that one right, at least. Or at least not wrong.”

“Now we just need to hope I can do as well with Ivy.”

“I’m sure you can. Better even. Although, er, maybe we could stop and get something warm to drink first?”

“Mmm, yes. That sounds like a very good idea.”


	12. A Merry Christmas

Mr. Carson stood in front of the Christmas tree, clearing his throat and raising his glass high in the air. “Attention, everyone! Attention!” The music died abruptly. Glancing over to the sound equipment, Phyllis wasn’t terribly surprised to see Thomas slipping away to stand by Jimmy and Andy. He’d seemed in good spirits all night, putting away as much of the cooking as he could manage and laughing merrily with the bellboys, but she suspected he’d been waiting for the opportunity to silence the music. The conversation continued a couple of moments longer, but then petered out. “Alright, then, everyone,” Mr. Carson continued with his speech. “The time has come for everyone to open their gifts! I know we all must be in a state of high anticipation, eager to see what we’ve received, but in order to avoid a stampede to the front, we will, as is tradition, be drawing names to see who gets their gifts first.”

There was a polite round of applause as Mrs. Hughes stood with the same top hat they’d used to draw names in the first place and plucked a piece of paper out of it. “James, you get to start us off.”

A couple of cheers went up from the assembly as Thomas mock pushed the shorter man toward the pile of presents at the front table. Grinning, the blond bellboy sauntered over and looked over the modest pile of packages until he found the one with his name. He finally came up with an unassuming rectangular box. His eyebrows shot up and he gave an inexplicable cough of laughter as he read the name on the card, then he unwrapped the package. All Phyllis could see was that it was a red box with gold lettering. Jimmy held it up so that everyone could see that it was, in fact, a box of Old Spice cologne. “Thank you, Mr. Bates! Needed another bottle of this, I was nearly out.”

“Now you can use the money on other things,” Mr. Bates noted as the younger man yielded the floor to the next person.

Mrs. Hughes fished out another slip of paper. “Daisy, your turn.”

Daisy’s present was in a large gift bag full of raffia, which was the only way to disguise the fact it was a book. A rather large book. “The complete works of Shakespeare!” the assistant cook squealed happily. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Patmore!”

“I wasn’t going to buy you Dracula for Christmas!”

Mr. Molesley went next. It took awhile for him to track down the rather small envelope with his name on it, but when he opened it he was quite pleased. “A gift card for Waterstones! Thank you, Gwen! Oh, I’ll be forever deciding what to get.”

“That’s why I didn’t try deciding for you,” the maid laughed.

Andrew read the card on his present and, like Jimmy, laughed. Unlike Jimmy, he gave Thomas a wry look as he said, “Mine’s from Mrs. Bates.” He pulled off the wrapping paper and his face lit up. “Vermont maple sugar leaves! My Uncle used to get these for me all of the time when I was a kid. How on Earth did you get these on time?”

“I had a friend who was over visiting the states,” Anna replied, looking smug. “Little bird told me you liked them, so I asked her to bring some. It was really a matter of perfect timing.”

Andrew retreated to the wall where Thomas and Jimmy both looked curiously at his gift. Phyllis was watching him pull the box open and hand one of the treats to the night manager when Mrs. Hughes called, “Miss Baxter.”

Inexplicably nervous, Phyllis stood and made her way to the presents. She was aware of Mr. Molesley behind her, applauding as she stood. She was just aware of Thomas, standing against the wall, resolutely ignoring her. Peering over the table, she finally located a thin, rectangular box wrapped in lovely, gold foiled paper that reminded her of a peacock’s tail. Either it was a professional wrapping job or one of her fellow staff members was an expert at wrapping presents. There was no card, though, or any indication who it was from. Carefully, trying not to tear the paper, Phyllis worked the tape loose and unwrapped the box. Lifting the lid she found a pair of very nice, black leather gloves and a rich, plum coloured cashmere scarf. There were appreciative gasps from the assembly as she pulled it out and wrapped it around her neck. “Thank you, it’s lovely. And so soft.”

“Who gave it to you?” Daisy asked.

Phyllis shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t say.”

There were several noises of protest, but Mrs. Hughes cut them off. “Now now,” she chastised, her voice carrying easily through the room. “If someone wishes their gift to remain a secret, that’s perfectly acceptable. Now, Mrs. Patmore?”

Mrs. Patmore, as it turned out, did not have “A History of Food in 100 Recipes” and was quite chuffed to get a copy. Gwen received a rather nice journal and pen from Alfred. Alfred, in turn, exclaimed excitedly over the copy of “Tasting Paris: 100 Recipes to Eat Like a Local” that Daisy had gotten him. He didn’t even stop when she harumphed and insisted she should have gotten him a lump of coal.

Anna picked up her present, looked at the name, and laughed. Her present turned out to be a very fuzzy, soft looking, oatmeal coloured jumper. “Thank you, Andy,” she said, exchanging a grin with the lanky bellboy.

“I hope it fits.”

“Huh,” Mr. Molesley huffed softly in her ear. “What were the odds of them getting each other?”

Not being any good at probability, Phyllis shrugged. She then held her breath as Ivy found her gift. Suddenly it didn’t feel very personal, and heaven knew it hadn’t been expensive. She’d just found it in a little boutique and who knew if it was even an acceptable style?

She needn’t have worried, it turned out. “Oh, Miss Baxter!” Ivy exclaimed, holding the necklace up to give the room an idea of how it would hang. “It’s lovely, thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled. 

Ivy walked over and sat down next to Anna (who had tried her jumper on and was now sitting quite close to her husband who had one arm slung around her waist. Phyllis suspected he was enjoying the jumper as much as she was). The older woman leaned over to admire the gift.

Only two people left.

It was easy to tell that Ivy had gotten Thomas a CD. She’d wrapped it so the shape was a dead give away. After peeling the paper away, the night manager gave the album a somewhat perplex look. “Sadie and the Hotheads?” He turned the case over and glanced at Ivy. “A favorite band of yours?”

“Actually I’ve never listened to them,” the girl confessed. “My cousin recommended them, though. They’re not really jazz, but they’re sort of jazzy and sort of eclectic and, well, just different. I thought it might be at least interesting.”

“Who told you I like jazz?” Thomas asked. His tone was still politely confused rather than defensive or annoyed, but Ivy looked ready to sink through the floor as she answered.

“Miss Baxter.”

“Ah. I see.” For a moment his eyes flickered her direction, not actually looking at her, but acknowledging with their movement that she was there, and his smile faltered. Then it was back, stronger than before. “Well, I look forward to listening to it.” His eyebrows quirked as he looked over the titles. “Especially ‘My Debt Collector’. That sounds entertaining.” He looked up, grinned broadly, and gave a little salute with the gift. “Thank you.”

Mr. Bates was the last to go and there were only two people whose gifts had not been announced to the world. By logical deduction, the person who didn’t get Mr. Bates had gotten her, so Phyllis watched with a bit more interest than she would have otherwise as the day manager lifted his package. He gave an ironic grin and turned to look at Jimmy, who grinned back. “What were the odds?” he asked, echoing Mr. Molesley’s earlier sentiment, then reaching into the gift bag. He drew out a black watch cap.

Jimmy shrugged. “I figured it’d at least keep your ears warm.”

“It will at that,” Mr. Bates agreed, although it was impossible to tell if he was pleased with the gift or not. At least he didn’t seem displeased.

“Alright then, everyone,” Mrs. Hughes announced, setting the top hat aside. “In about five minutes, we’ll start the karaoke.”

There was a mixture of cheers and groans. Someone started the music again. Phyllis looked over at Thomas, watching him laugh with Andy and Jimmy. 

He turned his head and for just a moment their eyes met. Then he looked sharply away and turned toward the refreshment table. 

The message was clear. With a sigh, Phyllis looked down at her new gloves. She obviously hadn’t gotten what she really wanted, but she’d not expected it. What she had gotten would keep her warm and was a step in the proper direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the distinction of being the most researched chapter in the entire piece. All presents are things that actually exists - or are for places that exist and I assume have gift cards. (Could not find an equivalent of Vermont Maple Sugar Leaves outside of the US, so I assume they don't actually exist. Maybe wrong there, though, so don't quote me on that.)


	13. And To All A Good Night

“I don’t think he liked it,” Elsie heard Ivy’s voice say from somewhere down around the corner. 

“I think he did,” Anna’s voice said back. “He just doesn’t know the band is all. He sounded legitimately curious at least.”

Whatever Ivy said in reply, they were too far away for Elsie to hear. She wasn’t really interested in eavesdropping anyway. She turned toward the conference room, a tartan gift bag in her hand. She normally avoided giving people tartan things, feeling it somewhat trite, but under the circumstances it was the only thing she could find that didn’t feel gaudy and overly festive. As she stepped into the still holly decked room (much tidied, each maid having been assigned a task to complete before going home for the night), she was pleased to see that she was right and Thomas was still there. To her surprise, he wasn’t cleaning or breaking down tables or otherwise clearing away all trace of the festivities. Instead he was standing in the middle of the room, simply looking at the tree.

Reluctant to disturb the scene, she walked as softly as she could across the room until she stood at his shoulder. “Mr. Barrow?”

He started slightly, then turned to face her, his lips lifting in a polite smile. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Hughes. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Elsie returned the smile, then looked at the tree. “You seemed lost in thought.”

“Oh, nothing important,” he shrugged, then looked at the tree himself. “Just remembering how much I loved decorating the tree when I was little. Of course, it was a lot less headache with Mum and Dad and us kids. Now it’s just too much hassle, and there’s no room in the flat.” 

If there was one thing Elsie had never heard in all her years of working with Thomas Barrow, it was him talking about his family. If pressed, she could have told you that his father sold and repaired clocks and that he had a sister. The second bit she knew from Miss Baxter. Carefully, keeping her tone as disinterested as possible, she asked, “How many children were there, all told?”

“There were four of us,” he replied, easily enough, but with a soft edge to his voice that she wasn’t at all used to. She would almost have called it ‘wistful’. “Margaret was the oldest, then me, then Rob and Mickey.”

“Do you get to speak to them, ever?” She was pushing it, she knew.

“Not really, no. We’re all busy living out lives, and no one sends Christmas cards these days.” He turned smartly, hands behind his back, all trace of emotion vanishing behind his professional mask, an utterly blank face with a smile that didn’t mean anything. “But you didn’t come in here to listen to me talk, I’m sure. What can I do for you?”

Elsie knew when to let something drop. Holding up the gift bag, she smiled at him. “Mr. Carson and I thought that our managers deserved a little something extra, as thanks for their hard work this year.”

There was a moment of frozen hesitation, not infrequent when one caught the night manager off guard with a compliment, even if it was simply recognition of a job well done.”Oh.” He smiled again as he took the bag, although it lacked the confident uncaring of his earlier expression. This smile was shy and uncertain, as if he wasn’t quite positive it was appropriate. “I…thank you. That really wasn’t necessary.”

Moments like this made Elsie want to pick Thomas up and hold him like a small child. It was a ridiculous thought, really, given that he was considerably taller than her, but she couldn’t help it. It almost seemed like he expected to be punished for being happy or pleased or proud, even when he deserved it. “I in particular would like to thank you for always being such a good sport about the Christmas party.” She carefully kept it general and did not draw specific attention to the exchange this year. “I know it’s not your favorite holiday.”

Even as he pulled the bottle of wine he’d been gifted out of the bag, his expression fell and closed off a little. “It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy it,” he protested or promised, it was hard to tell which. “It’s just easier when people aren’t so…noisy about it. That’s all.”

“I can understand that, yes.” While Elsie would never say she didn’t look forward to the Christmas party, sitting back and watching her staff relax and enjoy each other’s company, she had to admit she preferred her Christmas days alone with Charles, eating good food, exchanging their own gifts, and reading or watching movies. “Are you certain you’re okay with working a long shift tomorrow?”

Thomas nodded. “Nothing else to do, really. As you said, not my favorite holiday. Might as well let Mr. Bates and Mr. Carson enjoy themselves while I make a bit extra.” The polite smile was back. Elsie never really trusted that one. Still working from ten in the morning (two hours after Mr. Bates normally started) to eleven at night (an hour before Thomas normally got off) was nothing to sneeze at when hourly wages were concerned, and most of the guests would probably be out for the lion’s share of the day, so at worst it would likely be a bit dull.

“In which case, I suggest you head home. It’s nearly the end of your shift and you’ve a very early start in the morning.” Elsie reinforced her suggestion by taking Thomas by the arm and steering him toward the door. He allowed it, shifting the gift bag to his other arm. “Half of the seasonal staff agreed to work, and Andrew volunteered as bellboy, apparently his parents are out of country, so you should have plenty of help there.”

“Who’s in the kitchen?” 

“Martha for the first half of the day, Daisy the second, so wait times will be a bit slow, but I suspect you’ll manage.” She paused in the door, bringing him to a stop with her, and looked earnestly up at him. “And if there is an emergency, don’t hesitate to call, Christmas or no Christmas.”

He nodded obediently. “I’ll still try not to.”

“I know you will.” Smiling, she took hold of his shoulder and tugged him downward. He bent, his face folded with confusion, and, when he was close enough, she stretched up and kissed his cheek. Then she released him.

He straightened, bemused shock plastered across his face. “What was that for?”

Wordlessly, Elsie looked up. 

Thomas followed her lead and discovered that they’d come to a stop directly beneath the mistletoe. He gave a startled little huff of laughter. “No one ever tries to get me under the mistletoe…”

“Well, now someone has,” Elsie smiled pointedly up at him. “And succeeded at that.”

With another of those shy, scared smiles that Elsie stored up for the times when he was being an absolute terror and making her want to hand him his walking papers; the ones that reminded her that whatever he’d been through before coming to the hotel must have been hell; the ones that convinced her that he was worth the effort of working with, Thomas leaned over and pressed a return kiss to her cheek. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Barrow.”

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hughes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you all have a good holiday season, especially my fellow customer service workers.


End file.
